


and finally it seems my lonely days are through

by seeingrightly



Series: you make me think that you will change my life forever [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Relationship, trans stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 05:21:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15789786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeingrightly/pseuds/seeingrightly
Summary: The next time the pair comes to the library, they are not so well-behaved. First things first, the girl rides a scooter directly into the library, the man laughing as he follows her. Hermann rises halfway from his chair, pulling off his glasses, and then they spot him.“Sorry,” the man says, waving at Hermann to sit back down. “We’ll be good. Here, Tilly, give me -”He takes the scooter and folds it up. They’re both wearing backpacks stuffed to the brim, and he has a lunchbox tucked under one arm. It’s only 10am on a Saturday. Hermann can feel a headache coming on already.-or: the one where hermann works at an academic library, and his least favorite patron starts bringing a child with him, and hermann has a reaction he doesn't anticipate





	and finally it seems my lonely days are through

**Author's Note:**

> i don't wanna totally spoil the scenario but there's a good deal of trans stuff in this fic, as a general... warning? invitation?
> 
> ty to [lindsey](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/) for bullying me into actually working on this and editing, and to [melissa](https://theverytiredgirl.tumblr.com) for editing and academic-library-picking this even though i barely listened to you oops
> 
> this had an epilogue but lindsey convinced me it needs to be its own thing so maybe it'll turn into a sequel MAYBE
> 
> title from "i've been waiting for you" by abba (again. oops)

 

 

 

Hermann has been told on more than one occasion that he fits the librarian stereotype. It’s a preferable comparison to being told he looks like a grandparent, despite his youth, but all in all Hermann doesn’t especially care what others say about him or compare him to, so long as they’re not an authority figure of some kind.

 

He’s perfectly happy, thank you very much, to check out scientific journals, assist students at the reference desk, and take his time putting books back in their proper place, glasses perched on the end of his nose and cardigan buttoned up all the way because they run the blasted air conditioning too high year-round in MIT’s Humanities & Sciences Library.

 

He’s busy, as a PhD candidate, and when he’s not in class or studying or teaching or grading, he’s usually here at the library, working. It’s quiet and clean and full of bright minds and he likes it rather a lot.

 

That is to say that it’s usually quiet and clean. There is a new patron this semester who Hermann is deeply skeptical of. He must be a bright mind, if he’s here, but his nose is pierced and he wears large headphones that certainly aren’t noise-cancelling and his shoelaces are usually untied and Hermann has caught him  _ eating _ more than once. It’s not technically forbidden, but Hermann would rather prevent a mess than clean one up, no matter the looks or remarks he receives about enforcing rules that don’t exist.

 

The last time this patron came into the library, Hermann might have shouted at him a little for the Dunkin iced coffee cups he tended to leave behind, condensating, and the patron might have shouted back. It was two in the morning and the floor had been empty, so Hermann hadn’t reported the incident and neither had anyone else. Hermann has not been looking forward to his return.

 

He spots the man on his way into the library at the start of an evening shift, but he seems to be behaving himself, so Hermann settles into the front desk and checks his work email. After a few moments, though, someone steps up to the other side of the desk. Hermann would finish reading the email he’s pulled up, but he can see out of the corner of his eye that that someone is curiously short.

 

A little girl is looking at him expectantly. She must be around nine years old. She has a neon green band-aid curling over her chin and down under her jaw, and is missing several teeth. Her light brown hair is tangled and comes just past her chin. She has on glasses with blue plastic frames, and one of the lenses has the remains of a sticker clinging to it.

 

“Yes?” Hermann asks, startled into mildness.

 

“Where’s the garbage?” she asks, and then she holds up two fistfuls of what appear to be multiple fruit snack packages.

 

Hermann grabs the bin under his desk and reaches it across the counter, leaning forward and lowering it so she can place the wrappers inside. He would tell her where to find another, so that they don’t have to do this again, but he’s not sure where she came from and equally not sure if he should  _ ask _ .

 

She turns to walk away, but then she comes back a moment later.

 

“Thanks!” she says, smiling, and then she’s off.

 

Hermann watches closely as she weaves through the tables near the front of the library and comes to a stop next to Hermann’s least favorite patron. He’s got a laptop and multiple textbooks and notebooks spread out across a large table, and the girl sits down next to him, picking up her own middle grade book. The man looks up and smiles at her, placing a hand on her back briefly. Hermann squints, but they’re not technically being disruptive, so he’s not sure if he can or should say anything.

 

He does take a moment to reevaluate the man. Hermann had thought he was a few years younger than Hermann himself, and this makes it difficult to guess his relationship to the child. They have a similar air of genial disarray that makes Hermann think they are closely related. 

 

The girl’s shoelaces, however, are at least tied.

 

-

 

The next time the pair comes to the library, they are not so well-behaved. First things first, the girl rides a scooter directly into the library, the man laughing as he follows her. Hermann rises halfway from his chair, pulling off his glasses, and then they spot him.

 

“Sorry,” the man says, waving at Hermann to sit back down. “We’ll be good. Here, Tilly, give me -”

 

He takes the scooter and folds it up. They’re both wearing backpacks stuffed to the brim, and he has a lunchbox tucked under one arm. It’s only 10am on a Saturday. Hermann can feel a headache coming on already.

 

Initially, they are quiet. Hermann feels confident enough to make his rounds - he’s usually tasked with covering the first floor and the front desk, likely because he’s more intimidating than much of the rest of the staff - and so he’s surprised when he returns and the girl is nowhere to be found. He can’t tell if her... adult has noticed.

 

Hermann startles as he lowers himself into his seat, because the girl reappears rather loudly, causing several other patrons to look up.

 

“Daddy,  _ look _ ,” she says, brandishing an scientific journal. “This magazine is entirely about sharks!”

 

The man - her father - looks up from his laptop with an expression of what Hermann suspects is genuine excitement. It makes him look young, even younger than usual. He and Hermann must be closer in age than Hermann originally assumed, unless the man became a father at a  _ very _ young age. Even still, looking at him, Hermann wouldn’t believe he’s older than his mid-to-late 20s.

 

“Hey, look at that,” he says, tugging at the girl’s arm until she sits.

 

He lowers his volume until she does the same, and they pore over the journal together for long enough that Hermann can’t even be annoyed that it’s been taken away from other patrons who might actually need it. The girl continues to look through it on her own and appears to be reading the text, which, despite himself, Hermann finds charming.

 

He doesn’t  _ dislike _ children. He doesn’t have much opportunity or occasion for interacting with them; he has a few young nieces and nephews, but he doesn’t see them much, since he’s chosen to study so far away. And children don’t especially belong in one of MIT’s libraries. He is certain of this when the girl somehow simultaneously knocks over a bag of M&Ms and an open can of Monster.

 

“Oh no!” she says, jumping out of her seat.

 

“Shit,” her father hisses, jumping out of his as well to right the can and start moving books and papers out of the way.

 

A few curious heads pop over the upper level balconies to check on the disturbance. Hermann sighs heavily and rises, grabbing his cane and the bin. He marches over to their table and drops it on the floor, then heads to the toilet to grab paper towels.

 

“I’m sorry,” the girl says, anguished.

 

“It’s okay, bud. It’s really fine. We can clean this up.”

 

Hermann ducks into the toilet, and when he reemerges, things seem calmer, and stickier. He should have wet some of the paper towels.

 

“Here,” Hermann says, dropping them on top of the worst of the mess.

 

“Thank you,” the man says. “Sorry.”

 

He glances at his daughter, who is picking up M&Ms one by one, and sends Hermann a desperate look, so Hermann heads back to his desk. A short while later, things are clean again and the girl has ducked off into the stacks once more, and the man comes over to lean against Hermann’s desk.

 

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for not giving me a hard time in front of my kid. You can rip me a new one now.”

 

“I wasn’t aware that my reprimands had any effect on your behavior,” Hermann replies, dry.

 

The man winces.

 

“Honestly I was hoping you’d yell at me a little and it’d make you feel better,” he says. “‘Cause, you know, I don’t necessarily expect the behavior to change? Kids are kids, man.”

 

“And why is this one  _ here _ ?”

 

The man bites on his lip, staring a Hermann for a long moment.

 

“Look, dude, I’m a single parent in a PhD program,” he says in a rush. “Sometimes my family can watch her but sometimes they can’t. I’m - I’m doing my best.”

 

He finishes a little hollowly, looking down at his hands. 

 

Generally, Hermann knows when he is being mean or rude or unfair, but he doesn’t often care. In this instance, he does feel guilty. Perhaps it’s the man’s scratchy voice, or the glimpse of tattoo peeking out from under his sweatshirt sleeve, or the way he smiles over his shoulder when his daughter comes back into sight, or the fact that Hermann suspects his tongue is pierced as well. None of these are things Hermann would expect to find appealing - but there is something there, and it is something that makes him want to be something other than mean and rude and unfair.

 

“Why don’t you reserve a study room when you want to come in?” he asks neutrally. “You won’t have to attempt to behave yourselves quite as much.”

 

“That  _ is _ a good way to keep us out of your hair,” the man says, and then he glances up at Hermann’s hair, of all things, for a long, thoughtful moment. “You have a sign-up sheet?”

 

Hermann hands him the clipboard, bemused. The man is wearing chipped black nail polish. When he hands the clipboard back, Hermann takes a moment to look at the multiple time slots he’s signed up for in the coming week.

 

“Newt Geiszler,” he reads.

 

The girl comes up to the counter and rests her arms there, crossed, with her chin nestled on top.

 

“That’s a nickname,” she says. “Dad’s full name is Newton. I like to know people’s nicknames and their full names.”

 

“And what is yours?” Hermann asks after a moment. “Is Tilly a nickname?”

 

“Yes, my full name is Matilda,” she replies, very serious. “Do you think that’s a good name?”

 

“That’s a very good name,” Hermann replies, equally serious. “Which do you prefer, your full name or your nickname?”

 

“I like both,” she says. “Do you have a nickname?”

 

“Not particularly,” Hermann replies. “My name is Hermann.”

 

“Oh, that’s easy to come up with nicknames for,” Newt says, opening his mouth like he’s about to begin doing so.

 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Hermann says, glaring, and Newt gives him a calculating look. “It’s not professional.”

 

“Sure it is,” Newt says. “All my coworkers and professors and students call me by mine, no big deal.”

 

“Well, then, seeing as we are not colleagues in any way,” Hermann replies, “I shall refer to you as Newton.”

 

He raises his eyebrows in challenge, though he couldn’t say why he does so. The expression on Newt’s face is somewhere between exasperated and amused. Matilda is looking back and forth between them with a very slight frown on her face.

 

“Dad, what’s a colleague?” she asks.

 

Newt breaks and smiles down at her, ruffling her hair in a way that makes her duck away slightly.

 

“Let’s go look it up,” he says, turning back to Hermann. “Where’s the dictionary? We like to do it the old school way when we can.”

 

Hermann doesn’t bother to check his unimpressed expression and points them in the direction of the reference books. As they head off, he picks the clipboard back up to look at all the time slots Newt signed up for. Hermann is not working during all of them, of course not, but they still should be seeing plenty of one another. He can only hope that, in a study room, their time here will be less disruptive.

 

-

 

It is no surprise that Newt and Matilda do not actually spend all of their time in their assigned study room. Hermann becomes quickly accustomed to the sight of Matilda wandering through the stacks, grabbing a scientific journal or finding a book for her father or, occasionally, making conversation with other patrons. She always returns her materials back to Hermann at the front desk - not any of the reshelving carts, but Hermann directly, which he likes.

 

Newt, meanwhile, will periodically leave the study room to pace, or to go outside and take phone calls, or to find multiple books simultaneously that he has Matilda help him carry. Sometimes Hermann will finds a book or two on the floor underneath the table after they leave, which he is fairly sure to ascribe to Newt.

 

Bursts of laughter and groans of frustration echo from their study room around the first floor of the library. All in all, they could be much more disruptive, and Hermann thinks there are actually fewer problems on days that Matilda comes along. 

 

But perhaps the truth is that he just enjoys those days more. She is curious, more than anything, and clearly supported in it. Hermann wishes, when he watches her, that he had been encouraged to explore, rather than to simply learn.

 

He notices more than once that Matilda runs out of activities before her father finishes his work. These are the only times her presence becomes trouble. She clearly doesn’t like sitting idle, and she takes to wandering. Once, she vanishes completely, to be discovered by a very frustrated fourth floor librarian who has no idea what to do upon finding a child in her stacks.

 

Hermann takes matters into his own hands. It’s what’s best for the library.

 

“Matilda,” he calls, the next time he can sense she’s growing restless.

 

She’s been sitting underneath an empty table and flipping through the same scientific journal for some time, no longer attempting to read it, a frown on her face. The sticker has finally been removed from her glasses, and she’s missing another tooth, and there are several bandaids on both of her knees. Hermann would swear she’s taller than she was a month ago when he met her.

 

She crawls out from under the table and brings him the journal, then rests her elbow on the counter and her chin on her palm.

 

“Hi,” she says morosely.

 

“Oh, chin up,” Hermann replies, and then he leans forward conspiratorially and lowers his voice. “I’ve got something for you.”

 

Matilda does brighten, and she leans all of her upper body onto the counter in a way Hermann should protest as he digs into his bag. He produces a deck of cards. They’re fairly worn, with illustrations of constellations on the back.

 

“Do you know how to play solitaire?” he asks, holding out the deck.

 

Something in Matilda’s expression falls, then turns calculating, then fades away into innocence, which makes Hermann suspicious.

 

“I play it on Dad’s phone sometimes, but not with real cards,” she replies easily enough.

 

“Why don’t I show you how to set it up?”

 

“Okay, but can I play out here?” Matilda asks. “In case I have more questions, so you can help me.”

 

She blinks up at him. He knows he’s being played in some way, but he’s not sure how, and he  _ would _ rather not have to venture into her father’s study room periodically, since he knows she really will ask questions.

 

“Yes, alright,” Hermann says, and he sets her up at the closest table, arranging the deck for her and making sure she knows what she’s doing before he returns to his desk.

 

Truth be told, there is not a  _ lot _ going on at the library at the moment, and he’s already delegated restacking and research assistant duties. He can only go through his emails and rearrange the front desk so many times, between assisting patrons, and Matilda catches on. She wanders up to his desk again, leaving the cards behind on the table, halfway through a game.

 

“Dad said I should ask you if I can call you by your first name or if you want me to call you something more professional,” she says unprompted.

 

Hermann can’t tell if this is Newt being considerate or mocking him. He has a feeling it’s a mixture of both. Matilda, though, is in earnest.

 

“You can call me Hermann, dear,” he says, surprising himself in more ways than one.

 

Matilda smiles up at him, genuine, but then she uses the moment to make her play.

 

“Do you know how to play Rummy?”

 

That is how Newt finds them: a deck of cards and a tally sheet and a small bag of pretzels from the vending machine between them, at one of the tables for patrons, several games in.

 

“Oh,” Newt says, placing his hand on Matilda’s back and taking in the scene. “I was wondering where you ended up, bud. Got sucked into a research spiral or I would have come and checked sooner.”

 

He shoots Hermann an apologetic look, but there’s also something regretful in his expression, something self-deprecating and guilty.

 

Based on their one-on-one interactions, Hermann does not especially like Newt. But now that he has seen him with his daughter, Hermann is reevaluating what he had assumed to be carelessness and disregard for others and self-interest. Newt obviously cares deeply about his daughter; Hermann suspects he’s contending with natural impulses that make being a single parent even more challenging and generally don’t lend well to interacting with others.

 

Newt leans on the back of Matilda’s chair, shaking his head, presumably to clear it, and then he looks over at Hermann like he’s registering what he’s seeing for the first time.

 

“This is interesting,” he says. “For someone so obsessed with professionalism…”

 

“Providing for patrons  _ is _ professional,” Hermann sniffs, pretending to study the cards in front of him. “I’m providing entertainment.”

 

“Yeah, you seem like a real entertaining guy,” Newt replies, and then Matilda tugs on his sleeve and he looks down.

 

“I can’t tell if you’re both being mean or playing,” she says, frowning.

 

Newt freezes, and then looks at Hermann out of the corner of his eye, calculating, maybe panicking a little.

 

“Plaaaaaaying?” he eventually says, slowly, his voice cracking, like he’s not sure how Hermann will react.

 

“Of course we are,” Hermann says, gathering up the cards, as he can tell this is only going to continue heading south. “What did I just say about providing for my patrons? Apparently childish banter is what your father requires.”

 

It is difficult to find the right balance between what he wants to say to Newt and what he feels he can actually say in front of Matilda. Fortunately, he thinks Newt is experiencing the same struggle.

 

“Well,  _ one _ of us is playing,” Newt mutters, though Hermann can’t tell if that means that Newt wants to be meaner to Hermann, or that he thinks Hermann is the one being meaner. “C’mon, Tilly, we have to get to that doctor’s appointment.”

 

“ _ No _ ,” Matilda says, sinking in her seat, which startles Hermann. “I don’t like him. He doesn’t listen.”

 

Newt squats down next to her chair to try to catch her eye and lowers his voice; Hermann feels like he’s intruding.

 

“No, Til, we’re not going to that doctor anymore,” Newt says soothingly. “I found a new one, remember?”

 

Matilda turns her head just slightly so that she can see her father, but she’s still frowning spectacularly, and she shoves her glasses up roughly before crossing her arms.

 

“What if this one is bad too?” she asks. “And won’t call me what I want?”

 

Hermann feels himself tense up before he consciously realizes what Matilda might be talking about. If she is talking about what he thinks she is talking about, if she has experienced what Hermann himself has experienced, then this is a conversation that he should not be a part of.

 

“Then we find another new one,” Newt continues. “But it says on the website that she’s good with patients who -”

 

Newt stops suddenly and glances over at Hermann like he’s just remembered he’s there. Matilda looks over at him too, and he feels frozen. If they aren’t going to tell him, he can’t reveal that he understood their conversation. Thankfully, though, just a moment passes before Matilda speaks.

 

“I think it’s okay,” she whispers, patting Newt on the shoulder.

 

Newt stares at Hermann for another long moment.

 

“Fine,” he says, turning back to his daughter. “The website says she’s got a lot of experience with trans patients, okay? So I think it’ll be better. But if it’s not we’ll leave and try another one. Sound good?”

 

Hermann is surprised by the warmth he feels at being included in this moment, and also by the warmth he feels at seeing good parenting in motion. He would have expected jealousy or regret. This is preferable.

 

There is a part of him, though, that feels guilty about not saying anything. Not telling them about himself. But he barely knows them, and this is a workplace relationship. He’s no fool.

 

“Okay,” Matilda tells her father, using his shoulder to leverage herself out of her chair before turning back to Hermann, who refocuses on her. “Thanks for playing cards with me.”

 

She looks shy, uncertain of herself for the first time since Hermann has known her. Uncertain in the way Hermann has felt for most of his life.

 

“Why don’t you hang onto them?” he asks, holding out the deck. “I’m sure you’ll need them again.”

 

Matilda and Newt’s eyes both widen, and then she steps around her father and the table. Hermann expects her to grab the deck, but instead she leans forward and wraps her arms around Hermann’s shoulders as he sits, not too tight, but her chin digging into his neck just a little. Hermann’s arms raise and flutter about uselessly, embarrassingly, for a moment, before he accounts for the odd angle and turns, one hand on the back of her head and the other, still holding the deck, patting her back a few times.

 

“Ah,” he manages, “yes, thank you, dear. Or - rather, you’re welcome.”

 

Matilda finishes off the hug with a little squeeze, and then pulls back and accepts the cards. Hermann forces himself to look at Newt, but his expression is nearly unreadable. Conflicted, maybe, which is fair, because Hermann feels much the same way about Newt.

 

“Well,” Newt says eventually, “alright, we gotta get going.”

 

“Okay,” Matilda says. “Thank you, Hermann.”

 

“Yeah,” Newt says, and though his tone is clearly meant to be teasing, it slips into something much too close to genuine when he repeats, “Thank you, Hermann.”

 

-

 

Things are odd when Newt comes into the library without Matilda. There’s not necessarily a reason for them to interact, but there’s also no reason for them to be civil, except that they know one another better now. Hermann has started to think of Newt as a real person rather than just a nuisance.

 

He’s returning books back to their homes late one night when music begins to emit from one of the study rooms. The door is closed and the sound is muffled but still wholly inappropriate. Hermann hadn’t even been aware that Newt was in the library, but he knows that’s who has to be responsible.

 

He abandons his cart of books and heads over to the study room in question. When he knocks on the door, there is no answer, so he opens it. Newt has his head resting on his arms and is surrounded by many books, several empty cans, and his laptop, which is blasting some kind of electronic music. Hermann raises his cane and jabs Newt’s elbow with it from the doorway. Predictably, Newt flinches with his whole body and look up with alarm, his glasses nowhere in sight.

 

For a disarming moment, Hermann has to confront what Newt really looks like, his wild hair and his nose ring and the red marks on his cheek from his sweatshirt and his stubble. He is a mess. He is appealing in a way Hermann cannot comprehend.

 

“Oh,” Newt says after a moment, not that Hermann can hear it.

 

He turns the music off, then rubs at his face and begins searching slowly for his glasses. In motion, he looks unwell. There are many things Hermann had been planning to say to him, but they have unfortunately evaporated.

 

“Are you quite alright?” he asks instead, though he sounds like he doesn’t want to be asking.

 

“No,” Newt replies at length. “Just trying to wake myself up.”

 

“And the rest of the library.”

 

“Maybe they needed it,” Newt says distractedly, finally putting his glasses back on and taking stock of his workspace with a frown.

 

“I assure you they didn’t,” Hermann says, then before he can help himself, he adds, “You ought to leave, Newton.”

 

Newt looks up at him quickly, his expression hurt, then offended.

 

“Hey, man, I know I’m not the best patron or whatever, but I need to study here,” he starts, desperate and angry. “I doubt you even have the authority to kick me out anyway, dude, what kind of complex do you have?”

 

Newt yawns, then, and Hermann can see clearly that he does, in fact, have a tongue piercing. Hermann feels a heat in his face that isn’t entirely from anger.

 

“First of all,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height, “I  _ do _ have the authority to ban you if I so chose, so I would consider my actions wisely if I were you. Secondly, I wasn’t  _ telling _ you to leave, I was merely  _ suggesting _ it. Go home and go to  _ bed _ .”

 

Newt gapes up at him, and Hermann clenches his fist around the head of his cane. He went too far, too personal.

 

“That’s a suggestion?” Newt asks eventually. “That sounds like a command to me. Whatever, man, I’m fine. I’ll be quiet. You don’t have to worry about me disrupting anyone else.”

 

He waves Hermann off and turns back to his laptop. Hermann finds himself both relieved that Newt didn’t call him out on overstepping and offended by the dismissal.

 

“See to it that you don’t,” he snaps, and he shuts the door behind him harder than he means to.

 

-

 

Hermann doesn’t work at the same time as Newt is scheduled to come in for nearly a week after that, which is mostly a relief. It’s only a couple of days before he’s missing Matilda’s presence, though, and he briefly thinks he’s hallucinating when he hears her voice back near the scientific journals.

 

A quick glance around the first floor doesn’t reveal Newt anywhere, so Hermann heads back to the journal stands. Matilda appears to be choosing between two options and narrating her thought process to a nearby patron, who doesn’t seem especially interested, though neither do they seem especially bothered by the presence of a child, so Hermann views it as a win.

 

“Matilda,” he says, and she whips around with a big smile.

 

“Hi!” she says. “Dad wanted to study upstairs today but he said I could come down here and pick something to read if I was quick. Should I get  _ Aquaculture _ or  _ Crustaceana _ ?”

 

She doesn’t pronounce either title exactly correctly. If they had the time to sit down with the journals, Hermann would teach her the pronunciations, help her find the sections she could understand. He doesn’t know why this is something he specifically wishes he was available to do. He never thought he would be good at teaching below the college level, never thought he’d have the patience, or the ability to be gentle enough. 

 

“Why don’t you bring both?” he suggests.

 

Matilda nods and runs off toward the stairs. Hermann heads back to his desk. He has reports to write this morning, but he’s finding he hard to concentrate when he thinks he can make out Matilda and Newt’s laughter from the floor above.

 

“Uh, excuse me,” a patron says, and Hermann looks up from his blank document. “I need the latest edition of  _ Aquaculture _ .”

 

Hermann blinks.

 

“If it is not in the stacks then it is not available at this time,” he replies evenly.

 

The patron huffs quietly.

 

“Look, I saw a little kid running around with it,” he says. “I didn’t wanna just go grab it from her.”

 

Hermann adjusts his glasses, then looks down at his computer and pretends to check the availabilities.

 

“ _ Aquaculture _ , you said? I’m afraid that’s been checked out. It’s not available at this time. Try again tomorrow.”

 

The patron stares at Hermann for a long moment, then throws his arms in the air and lets out a frustrated groan before walking away. As he leaves, Hermann spots Newt standing a few feet away, holding a small stack of books and watching the exchange with a startingly - soft expression, Hermann wants to say.

 

“Oh,” Hermann says, and then he clears his throat and continues, “I would go back upstairs and make sure he doesn’t accost Matilda to get the journal he needs.”

 

“Upstairs,” Newt repeats tensely. “Right.”

 

Hermann genuinely hadn’t intended to remind him of the fact that things are strained between them. He grimaces as Newt walks away.

 

Naturally, Hermann ends up with a significant pile of books that need to be returned to the second floor. There are enough employees on shift that he can assign someone else to the front desk and return them himself, refusing to think about why he wants to. 

 

He’s shelving multiple books about photosynthesis when Matilda rounds the corner and walks directly into him. Thankfully, he recognizes her by her height quickly enough to grab onto her with one hand and the cart with the other, steadying them both.

 

“Alright?” he asks, one hand still on her shoulder as she adjusts her glasses and brushes hair out of her face.

 

“Yeah,” she says, crinkling her whole face up as though making sure. “Oops. Sorry.”

 

“Good thing that was me,” he says conspiratorially, and she laughs.

 

“Can I help you put books back?” she asks. “I read about the Dewey decimal system.”

 

The second floor is quiet, nearly deserted. He has an opportunity he shouldn’t waste.

 

“I’ll do you one better,” Hermann replies.

 

He helps Matilda step up onto the edge of the book return cart, one arm on the handle on either side of her, not quite touching her but easily able to catch her if she loses her grip or her balance. He hooks his cane onto the cart as usual and he takes off, faster than he usually would, but not faster than is sensible considering this is someone else’s child and there  _ are _ other patrons in the library and this is, in fact, his job.

 

That last part is false. No speed is sensible, considering this is his job. But he does it anyway.

 

Matilda laughs as they carefully round a corner. Hermann shushes her, but he’s laughing too; it’s quiet, but it’s there.

 

This is something he would have liked to do as a child. This is something that has, in honesty, popped into his head as an adult, but not something he had ever truly considered doing, before he was actually doing it. There is something about being with a child; there is something about knowing a child that gets to live as herself and express what she wants and explore. Something about it all lends to something unfolding in Hermann; he isn’t sure what it is yet, but he thinks it is good.

 

-

 

Hermann lets himself grow excited in anticipation of the next time Matilda and Newt come to the library. He is a busy man, and not one inclined to indulge. He has told himself that if he is passionate about what he pursues, puts his whole self into his work, he will need little else. He has never relied on or expected of anything outside of his drive and his ability and his desire to always learn more, do better, improve himself and the parts of the world he can touch. These lessons were drilled into him early.

 

They were reinforced throughout the rest of his life as well, of course. Professionalism and propriety keep him safe.

 

It is startling, then, to get a glimpse of what might be gained by opening himself up. To want to risk it.

 

All this, from a few shared games and laughs with a child he still doesn’t know very well. And, admittedly, from a handful of varied conversations with her father. Hermann does not know what he expects to come of any of this, but he finds that for once he is excited by risk.

 

Perhaps it is because it seems like in this instance, one vulnerable part of him would be safe. That his being trans and gay would not have consequences. Maybe this thought makes it easier to consider putting the rest of himself on display too, piece by broken piece.

 

Newt and Matilda are comfortably back in their study room the next time they visit. Hermann barely even sees them, since it’s a busy Friday night right before midterms begin. He’s floating between tasks, providing backup, assisting harried patrons and making sure the returned books are being put away quickly enough. He’s startled, then, when he stops by the front desk to retrieve more books and spots Newt coming inside, holding his phone and looking distressed.

 

“What’s wrong?” Hermann asks before thinking about it, and Newt jumps a little.

 

“That was my lab partner,” he says all in a rush. “Something’s off with our results and she can’t figure out what it is, and in order to fix it in time I’d have to go over there now, but I’ve got Tilly and it’s only a couple buildings away but I can’t bring her and I don’t have time to bring her home first...” 

 

He digs his free hand into his hair and tugs a little. Disgracefully, Hermann wonders what it’d be like to tug on that wild hair himself. That flicker of heat, that distraction, is the reason he says what he says next.

 

“You could leave her here with me,” he offers.

 

It’s absurd; he knows it the moment he hears his own words. Surely they don’t know one another well enough for this, let alone like one another enough for it.

 

But Newt’s expression is considering.

 

“You’re here til 11, right?” he asks.

 

Hermann blinks. Newt knows Hermann’s schedule. Newt is here at the same time as Hermann several times a week every week, whether Matilda is here or not. They’ve had few conversations that turned personal - aside from insults - but they certainly aren’t strangers. This is the first time that Hermann has considered that maybe Newt has been paying attention to him, too.

 

It makes sense, of course - he wouldn’t let Matilda spend time with him otherwise. But Hermann has been so focused on what Matilda thinks of him, so it is still startling, to wonder suddenly at the impression that Newt has of him, aside from the one he has when they’re fighting. And to consider that it has to be fairly positive, given the time he is allowed to spent with the man’s child.

 

“Yes, until 11,” Hermann agrees belatedly.

 

“Okay,” Newt says. “I mean, are you sure? You’re at work.”

 

“It’s what I’d be doing anyway, just without you nearby,” Hermann replies honestly, and Newt noticeably relaxes.

 

“Okay,” he says again. “Okay, I’ll go let her know - I really appreciate this, dude. Here, let me give you my number so I can check on things and let you know how long I’ll be.”

 

Hermann is pleased that Matilda isn’t upset to be left with him. He moves her backpack under his desk and sets her up with her book and a juicebox at the nearest table as Newt leaves, looking back over his shoulder more than once. Things feel hardly different from usual until Hermann has to reshelve some books on the fourth floor.

 

“I haven’t been up here before,” Matilda says as they leave the elevator.

 

She has one hand on the cart’s front handle, which is making it slightly difficult for Hermann to turn the cart fluidly for fear of hitting her with it, but it also means he knows where she is, so he doesn’t mind it.

 

“There’s a very nice view of the park across the way from the big windows,” Hermann says as he begins to work. “We’ll take a look as we pass by. Here, do you want to show me where this book belongs?”

 

Matilda really did teach herself the basics of the Dewey decimal system. She doesn’t have the patience to shelve more than a couple of books in a row, but she likes showing off that she knows what she’s doing, so Hermann requests her help periodically, making sure she never wanders out of the aisle he’s working in.

 

A patron comes into their aisle and stops short; it takes Hermann a moment to look up and find he recognizes the young woman, who he’s had in two of his seminars.

 

“Oh,” he says. “Hello, Emily.”

 

“Professor Gottlieb,” she replies uncertainly, her eyes on Matilda. “I - is that your kid?”

 

“No, this is my friend,” Hermann replies. “Can I help you find something?”

 

Emily gives him an odd look and declines the help, glancing at Matilda one more time before she ducks out of the aisle.

  
  


As they pass the big windows that overlook the front entrance of the library, Matilda leans her forearms against the windowsill and her chin on her arms. Hermann leans against the frame next to her.

 

“Is that dog supposed to be in the fountain?” Matilda asks.

 

“No, I doubt it,” Hermann replies, though he’s distracted, because he feels the urge to brush Matilda’s hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear.

 

He’s not a tactile person. That’s not to say that he doesn’t want to be, but rather that he’s had few situations in which to be one. Here, he has the urge to actually follow through and do it, the sense that he could. He’s just not sure if he’s ready yet, or what it means if he is.

 

Matilda pulls away from the window and scrunches up her face and looks up at Hermann. He thinks her expression is guilt.

 

“What is it?” he asks, reaching out, his hand stopping just above her shoulder.

 

“I’m kinda hungry,” she says. “I ate all my snacks before. Did Dad say what time he’ll be back?”

 

Hermann checks his phone, but there are no updates yet, and it is a bit late for Matilda not to have eaten dinner yet.

 

And so he breaks another one of his own rules without hesitation.

 

Arranging to have a pizza delivered to an academic library is much simpler than he would have anticipated; then again, he doesn’t know what kind of nonsense goes on when he isn’t working. When he walks back in through the front doors carrying the pizza box, two of his coworkers exchange the type of look they have been exchanging since he started spending time with Matilda; he’s unclear if it’s amusement or confusion or simple shock, but it is of no matter.

 

He places the pizza on Matilda’s table and sits down across from her. He’s already procured paper towels and drinks from the vending machine. He only wishes he had plates. Matilda is unbothered, though, and simply holds her slice above the pizza box to avoid dripping on herself or the table.

 

“I’m happy that we’re friends,” Matilda says suddenly, and Hermann is gratified to learn that she doesn’t speak with her mouth full.

 

“I am as well,” Hermann replies. “It was a surprise to me. I don’t know many children.”

 

Matilda gives him a calculating look.

 

“I think that’s why you don’t talk to me like I’m a little kid,” she says thoughtfully. “I like it.”

 

She pulls a section of cheese off of her slice of pizza and puts that directly in her mouth. After, when she speaks again, she’s quieter.

 

“And… even usually grown-ups who are happy for me that I’m a girl and call me what I want are still… weird sometimes. But not you.”

 

She looks across the table at Hermann, her expression very serious, and his breath catches. He puts down his slice of pizza and wipes his hands on a paper towel, and then he extends one of his hands, resting his arm on the table next to the pizza box. Matilda puts one of her small, grease-coated hands in his, expectant.

 

“When I was your age,” Hermann says, quiet and maybe a little shaky, “I wasn’t really ever able to do what I wanted. I had to be obedient and proper and… not myself. And even when I got older and I  _ was _ able to… start to be me, there were lots of people who didn’t want to call me what I wanted to be called or see me how I wanted them to see me.”

 

He breathes in slowly and looks up from his lap. Matilda’s eyes are wide; he thinks she’s still processing.

 

“But now,” Hermann continues quickly, “I’m me, and you’re you, and we’re able to find each other, and understand each other, and be friends.”

 

Matilda nods slowly, her eyes still wide, and then abruptly she bursts into tears.

 

“Oh - oh no,” Hermann says, and he rounds the table and, his leg be damned, kneels down next to her chair.

 

He reaches out, and Matilda practically collapses against him, resting her head on his shoulder and clinging to his sweater. He wraps his arms around her carefully, at first patting her back a few times, and then stroking her hair, which feels close enough to natural that he thinks it’s the way to go.

 

“Don’t cry, Tilly dear,” he says helplessly. “It’s alright. Oh, I hope this is happy crying.”

 

Matilda laughs, then, against his neck, though her crying has not yet let up. She pulls back just enough to look at him, her face pink and snotty. He removes one hand from her back to hand her a paper towel. When she fails to effectively clean herself up, he grabs another one and helps, and she laughs again.

 

“It is happy crying,” she says eventually, her little voice strained and hoarse.

 

“Good,” Hermann says, and then he finally allows himself to fix her hair before he slowly, painfully leverages himself back off the floor.

 

He does his best to mask any reaction, but Matilda is looking at him with concern when he sits back down.

 

“I’m alright,” he says evenly, but it’s likely he won’t be later.

 

His phone buzzes with a text from Newt then, and Hermann is grateful for the distraction.

 

“It’s your father,” Hermann says. “He says he’ll still be another hour or so. And he’s asking if you ate.”

 

Hermann gives Matilda a pointed look, and she picks up her slice of pizza again. He texts Newt back to let him know everything is fine. Once they finish eating, and the leftovers have been delivered to the breakroom, Hermann sets up Matilda with the playing cards and checks his work email. He probably shouldn’t walk around too much for the rest of his shift, both to avoid exacerbating his leg more and because walking will make it evident that he shouldn’t have done what he did.

 

After a while of Hermann working at the front desk and keeping an eye on Matilda, he gets another text from Newt that says he won’t done by 11 and isn’t sure what to do.

 

_ It’s fine. I’ll wait here with her, _ Hermann replies immediately.

 

When Newt turns up, close to midnight, Hermann is reading on one of the first floor couches, and Matilda is asleep with her head in his lap. Newt slows to a stop when he sees them, his expression unreadable. Then he comes closer, dropping his backpack to the floor and sitting next to it, startlingly close to Hermann’s legs.

 

“Hey,” Newt says. “Thank you.”

 

He sounds exhausted. He looks it too. With one hand, he reaches up to tug the book out of Matilda’s hand and just holds it in his lap.

 

“You’re welcome,” Hermann replies. “I really didn’t mind. Did you fix your lab work?”

 

“We did,” Newt replies, sounding satisfied with that at least. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I - no offense, but it’s… surprising to me that you like hanging out with my kid.”

 

“It surprised me as well,” Hermann says for the second time that night, and Newt laughs.

 

“Also,” Newt says, looking at Hermann out of the corner of his eye, “I’m surprised you’re willing to do me any favors. Seeing as how our librarian-to-patron relationship is, uh… volatile.”

 

“To be honest, I wasn’t really thinking of it as a favor to you,” Hermann replies. “It was a favor to her.”

 

Newt scrunches up his whole face as he looks up at Hermann.

 

“See, exactly,” he says finally, gesturing expansively. “I can’t tell if that’s sweet or douchey. Like - I keep wanting to be a dick to you but then I see how you are with Tilly and I  _ have  _ to like you.”

 

Hermann lets out a hum of consideration without planning it.

 

“I want to like you because you’re a good father, but you keep being annoying,” he agrees.

 

Newt lets out a little laugh, but his expression is very serious, and almost disbelieving.

 

“You,” he starts, and then he looks down and says again, “You think I’m a good father?”

 

“Yes,” Hermann replies instantly. “From what I have seen, yes.”

 

Newt looks back up at Hermann for a long moment, and then he opens his mouth and starts speaking so quickly Hermann almost can’t follow him.

 

“I think maybe - I think if we were, like, not in a situation where I have to follow a bunch of rules and you have to enforce those rules, we’d - we’d be able to just like each other.”

 

He stops as abruptly as he’d started. Hermann knows there are implications here, and he knows Newt is nervous, but Hermann has a child sleeping on his lap. He cannot invite himself into a situation that involves a child; it has to be Newt.

 

“I don’t think you were quite finished,” Hermann says, and Newt’s eyes widen comically.

 

“Oh,” Newt says. “Well. I’m. Super fucking busy and I’m sure you are too, but. Do you wanna spend some time, the three of us, somewhere that isn’t here? See how it goes?”

 

Hermann looks down at Matilda, and then back up at Newt.

 

“I would like that,” he says, and Newt smiles sleepily up at him.

 

-

 

Hermann is not surprised when Newt texts him to ask if he’d like to come to the aquarium. It turns out that Matilda is fascinated with the subject because it’s what Newt is studying. Hermann hasn’t been to this aquarium before, so he’s happy to go. 

 

He finds himself hesitating when getting dressed. It isn’t a date; he and Newt had agreed on that. And yet Hermann doesn’t want to show up wearing the exact type of outfit Newt and Matilda see him in at work. It’s on the warmer side, so he branches out a little and puts on a short-sleeved button-up, though he still wears a light cardigan over it, left open.

 

When Hermann gets to the aquarium, Newt and Matilda are waiting on a bench out front. Matilda pops up the moment she sees him and runs over. It’s odd to see them outside of the library. Matilda’s hair is down to her shoulders now, and both she and her father have more freckles than they had when it was colder. She grabs Hermann’s free hand and swings their arms between them as Newt joins them.

 

“Are you ready for penguins?” she asks in greeting.

 

“I most certainly am,” Hermann replies.

 

Newt smiles and hands out a ticket.

 

“Oh,” Hermann said, but Newt cuts him off before he can protest.

 

“Payment for babysitting, dude. Don’t even try it. I know you bought food.”

 

Hermann hesitates for a moment, and then he releases Matilda’s hand to take the ticket and put it in his pocket. He reaches back out, and Matilda smiles, gripping his hand in both of hers and leaning against his side.

 

“I’m so  _ excited _ ,” she says.

 

“Lead the way, then,” Hermann replies.

 

It’s odd, for Hermann, at first. He is used to spending time with Matilda, and either fighting with Newt or trying not to pay too much noticeable attention to him. Now, though, he is meant to find out what his relationship with Newt could be. 

 

Matilda hauls him along, pointing things out and providing explanations she is surely parroting from her father, who follows along a few steps behind initially, his hands in his jacket pockets. He chimes in every now and then to correct pronunciations or add in another fact or two, and it seems like it’s more for Matilda’s benefit than Hermann’s. It finally hits Hermann, as Newt leans up against a divider a few feet away, his eyes darting back to Matilda as Hermann glances over, that Newt is nervous.

 

Hermann’s been  _ mhmm _ -ing and prodding Matilda with little questions, but he goes out of his way to include Newt when Matilda informs what particular type of starfish is clinging to the glass in front of them.

 

“How can you tell?” Hermann asks Newt over his shoulder.

 

Newt startles just slightly, and then he comes to stand on Hermann’s free side, talking directly to him rather than to Matilda. He leans in close to the glass and points out little details, growing more animated as he goes along. Even inside the library, Newt’s passion had been charming, if disruptive; here, it is particularly compelling.

 

Newt trails off, and Hermann realizes he has been staring quite intently at him.

 

“Uh, sorry,” Newt says sheepishly. “I can get carried away -”

 

“Not at all,” Hermann replies quickly. “I’m very interested.”

 

It’s not false, exactly. Hermann wasn’t listening closely to the explanation about the starfish, but he wants Newt to keep talking like that. Newt smiles, still a bit nervous, but now also hopeful. As they move along, Hermann asks more questions, and he gets answers from both Geiszlers, overlapping and a bit loud, his arm and Newt’s brushing together occasionally.

 

After a bit, they come to something labeled a “petting pool.” There are many children and a few adults leaning over its edges, sticking their arms into the water to poke at starfish in one section, horseshoe crabs in another.

 

“Is this ethical?” Hermann asks under his breath as Matilda runs over and reaches for a starfish.

 

“Short version? It depends,” Newt replies wryly. “I can give you the longer version when we’re not here. Come on.”

 

He removes his leather jacket and shoves it under his arm next to Matilda’s as he moves toward the pool, and for the first time Hermann gets a clear look at his tattoos. Marine wildlife wraps around his arms, not complete sleeves yet by any means, but clearly been designed with that intention. They are bright and bold and entirely fitting.

 

Newt looks over his shoulder at Hermann.

 

“What’s the matter, Hermann?” he asks. “You scared to touch a horseshoe crab? Or to expose your delicate skin to the elements?”

 

He smirks a little as he talks, and Hermann’s instinct is to frown, to snap back, but he doesn’t think Newt is being mean, just teasing. There’s no reason he can’t respond in kind as he walks over to Newt at the side of the pool.

 

“Forgive me for not being as ready to pet a strange animal as someone with it drawn on his body permanently,” Hermann sniffs, rolling up his sleeve.

 

Newt glances down at the horseshoe crab tattoo on the delicate skin of his inner elbow and smiles fondly, then looks back up at Hermann and catches him looking again too. He switches his gaze to Hermann’s own pale, skinny forearm, then after a moment of visible deliberation, he reaches across Hermann to grab his wrist.

 

“Here, dude,” he says, plunging their arms into the shallow pool.

 

They’re pulled quite close together, and Hermann can’t particularly see what’s happening in the water near their hands, but he can see the slight blush high on Newt’s cheek. Something brushes Hermann’s fingers and he jumps, and then Newt shifts away a bit, releasing him so that they can both see into the pool and skim their fingertips across the horseshoe crab’s back as it passes by. Hermann hadn’t actually been nervous, but the animal does feel odd to the touch, and he lets out a small sound of surprise. Newt looks back over at him again, but then Matilda appears and Newt lets her in between them.

 

After he reaches into the pool to touch the passing horseshoe crabs a few more times, Hermann wanders alone over to the starfish. He recognizes what type they are thanks to Newt’s earlier explanations. When he looks up in the middle of petting a starfish, feeling just slightly ridiculous, Newt is watching him, his expression indulgent in a way that makes Hermann’s insides twist up. He looks back down quickly.

 

He still feels a little off-balance when they come together again to head to the next part of the aquarium, and it makes him prickly in a way he can’t help. There is a small flight of stairs up into the next room, and Matilda runs ahead and waits at the top. Newt puts his hand out behind Hermann, hovering there, as they climb the stairs themselves.

 

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” Hermann snaps, though quietly enough that Matilda won’t hear.

 

“Sorry,” Newt says quickly, pulling his hand back. “I’m not - I didn’t think you couldn’t - you know I wouldn’t -”

 

“I don’t know, actually,” Hermann says tightly. “We hardly know one another. Just because I’ve seen how good you are with Matilda doesn’t mean -”

 

He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together tightly. They’re still halfway up the steps, and people are weaving around them, and Matilda looks concerned on the landing.

 

“Nearly everything I know about you is an assumption,” Hermann says, more calmly this time. “And I’m sure you’ve made many assumptions about me.”

 

“That’s just being a person, dude,” Newt says helplessly. “But just tell me what you don’t want me to do and I won’t do it, alright?”

 

Hermann sighs and continues up the stairs again.

 

“I apologize,” he says. “You didn’t actually do anything wrong. I’m just - waiting for you to do something wrong.”

 

He makes a face at himself, and Newt huffs out a laugh. He reaches out to Matilda as they get to the landing.

 

“Everything’s fine, bud,” he says. “Penguin time.”

 

Matilda turns to Hermann, still unsure.

 

“Everything really is fine,” he says. “I’m just a bit tired. Why don’t you go look at the penguins, and I’ll have a rest over here, and then I’ll come join you in a bit?”

 

“I’m gonna take a rest too,” Newt says. “I’ll be over soon.”

 

“Okay,” Matilda says, and she looks relieved when they sit down next to one another on a bench.

 

She rushes over to the penguin exhibit across the room. Hermann stretches out his leg and rests his cane against the bench.

 

“She’s going to be here for a while,” Newt says, “if you really do need to rest for a bit. I don’t - want to assume -”

 

“Newton, hush,” Hermann says, exhausted suddenly. “You know that - you don’t know, but I am telling you now that if you overstep or say something I don’t like, I  _ will _ tell you. I appreciate your being careful, of course, but I don’t want to you to tread on eggshells. Please.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Newt says quietly.

 

“I know that - that this is just  _ being a person _ ,” Hermann repeats, shaking his head. “But I tend to find that when I get to know someone, I don’t like what I learn, and I rarely allow my hopes to get up the way I have with you.”

 

Newt is quiet for a long moment.

 

“You know,” he says eventually, “that sounded  _ really _ emo and dramatic, but I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt here and assume that people have been real dicks to you before and it’s a deserved attitude to have.”

 

When Hermann looks over, Newt is smiling just enough to soften his words, but his eyes are concerned. Hermann wilts.

 

“People tend not to like what they find when they get to know  _ me _ ,” he says. “So I stopped giving them the chance to.”

 

Newt just looks at him for a long moment, and when he speaks, it’s with some distance, like he has little control over the words coming out of his mouth.

 

“Really? Because I’m having the opposite experience. Bad first impression, better with time.”

 

Then he visibly shakes himself, starts to look a little embarrassed. He clears his throat and speaks again.

 

“And - and you and Matilda,” he says. “You have to know that she loves you, and… you’ve definitely given her the chance to get to know you.”

 

“More than you know,” Hermann says, just loudly enough for Newt to catch it, and then he clears his throat. “I haven’t been fair to you, Newton, but you’ve guessed that I have good reasons for it, and you should know what those reasons are.”

 

Newt casts a dubious look down at Hermann’s leg, and then opens his mouth, looking slightly confused.

 

“You don’t have to -”

 

“I’d like to,” Hermann says, and if he’s going to be brave enough to talk about this, he can also be brave enough to reach over and quickly pat Newt’s knee, silencing him effectively. “You trusted me with your daughter, and she and I have trusted one another with this, and I want to believe I can trust you with it too, so I am going to.”

 

He pauses, knowing this is awkward, knowing he is building tension, perhaps unnecessarily. He takes a breath and continues.

 

“The reason I have connected so much with Matilda, and have been so... affected by your parenting, is that I am also trans.”

 

He feels a little silly; he feels as though the declaration is ringing around the room. He presses his lips together and looks at Newt out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Oh,” Newt says, and then, immediately distracted, he looks over to Matilda. “Shit. I’ve made sure she spends time with other trans kids, but I never thought to make sure she knew any trans adults.”

 

He reaches up to dig his fingers into his hair, looking distressed for a moment, and then he lets out a long breath and drops his hand.

 

“Okay,” he says quietly, and then he turns back to Hermann. “Sorry, I’m - dude, thank you for telling me, seriously. I’m really happy that she has you now. Has… it’s been good for you, too, hasn’t it?”

 

He says the last part thoughtfully, like he’s reevaluated Hermann’s entire relationship with his daughter in the last two seconds. Hermann looks down at his hands in his lap.

 

“It has,” he agrees. “I’ve had much motivation not to be open about this, and before that, not to be myself. So to see a situation so unlike my own… To meet people I feel I can tell… It’s changed me.”

 

“Hey,” Newt says, and then, to Hermann’s surprise, he reaches out and grabs Hermann’s hand, holds it where it rests against his leg. “I’m so happy for you, that you have that now. And I’m gonna do my best to make sure that you don’t regret trusting me.”

 

Hermann looks up at Newt for a long time, and Newt doesn’t look away, earnest through and through. When Hermann uncurls his clenched fingers, Newt slides his hand all the way into Hermann’s, squeezing it, and they both smile.

 

“Should we stop before Matilda sees?” Hermann asks after a moment.

 

“Probably,” Newt replies, but he lingers for a moment before he actually pulls his hand away. “That’s gonna be weird to figure out how to navigate.”

 

“What is?” Hermann asks, and maybe he’s fishing because he’s nervous about whether Newt is still interested, but mostly he wants to tease Newt again.

 

Newt looks away.

 

“How to - what to tell or not tell Matilda, about what we’re - if we’re -”

 

Newt looks back, his cheeks pink, and when he sees Hermann’s smirk he groans.

 

“You’re the worst,” he says, and then he gets up, though he slows down to wait for Hermann to join him, knocking their shoulders together gently.

 

When Matilda spots them, she grabs Hermann’s arm and starts pointing out the different penguins to him, what their behavior indicates. Eventually, Newt convinces Matilda to move on, and they come to the end of the aquarium shortly after.

 

“Who’s hungry?” Newt asks.

 

“Me!” Matilda says.

 

“Me as well,” Hermann replies.

 

“Okay, there’s a café upstairs but there’s also an outdoor restaurant,” Newt says.

 

Hermann glances down at Matilda, who has her lips pressed together tightly in some kind of anticipation.

 

“Outside?” Hermann guesses, and Matilda nods frantically, and he laughs.

 

On their way outside, she takes his hand again. Hermann’s held more hands on this day than he has since the last time he saw his nieces and nephews. It’s nice.

 

The restaurant is self-service, and after they decide what they want, Newt insists that Hermann and Matilda go find a table while he gets the food. Matilda scoots her chair close to Hermann’s and leans her chin in her hand. He reaches up to fix a piece of flyaway hair.

 

“You know what we talked about at the library the other night when it was just you and me?” Hermann asks, and Matilda nods and smiles. “I told your father about it, so you don’t have to keep it a secret from him, alright?”

 

“Okay,” Matilda says. “That’s good. You should talk to us about it. If you want to.”

 

Hermann smiles.

 

“I think I actually do want to,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

“I’m happy you told Dad,” Matilda says, and Hermann is confused by the repetition at first, but then she continues, “He wants to talk to you more. He wants to be friends. Or…”

 

Matilda bites her lip, and then she leans in close.

 

“I think he  _ likes _ you,” she whispers. 

 

“ _ Really? _ ” Hermann whispers back, raising his eyebrows, and she nods. “And what do you think about that?”

 

To his surprise, Matilda looks embarrassed at that, shifting away a little.

 

“What is it, dear?” he asks, and she turns back to him, her eyes gigantic and appealing, though he cannot tell if it’s intentional or not.

 

“I… I want you to like him back,” she says.

 

“You know,” Hermann says carefully, “you and I were friends first. And no matter what happens between your father and myself, you and I are going to stay friends.”

 

Some tension visibly leaves Matilda’s shoulders.

 

“Are you sure?” she asks, and Hermann nods.

 

“Okay,” Matilda says easily.

 

And that’s a marvel, isn’t it, her belief, her willingness to trust Hermann. It took Hermann nearly three decades to be able to trust like this, and he is going to do what he can to make sure that isn’t taken away from Matilda.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [ch3ry1b10ss0m](https://ch3ry1b10ss0m.tumblr.com) and twitter at [coralbluenmbr5](https://www.twitter.com/coralbluenmbr5)


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